


Suteishi

by BashfulInfidel



Series: Vignettes [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Implied Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-05
Updated: 2016-12-18
Packaged: 2018-08-29 07:12:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 18,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8480398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BashfulInfidel/pseuds/BashfulInfidel
Summary: Suteishi: The 'discarded' rocks in a Japanese karesansui (rock garden), placed in apparently random locations to suggest spontaneity. 
A series of drabbles dedicated to mapping out the relationship between Genji and the people who have made him who he is today.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It took a village to raise this fic. There were a lot of people who spent valuable time and effort helping to polish this up, and for that I am endlessly, endlessly grateful. Thank you first and foremost to my sister, without whom I would probably be literally dead at this point, and who offered me the criticism and encouragement and joy and enthusiasm that kept me going in my darker hours. She's been my alpha reader for some time, and will continue to remain so. I owe a lot of thanks to my beta reader, midnightluck, who put in the hours and sacrificed sleep and went above and beyond to fix the little nitty-gritty details of this fic and is in general an amazing and intelligent person. 
> 
> For this particular chapter, I'm also grateful to rhois and shizuumi151 here on the archive, for giving me the concrit and morale boost I needed to continue with the project I'd started. <3

“I sympathise with your frustrations, Hanzo, but the matter at hand concerns sanctuary for a victim of war and trauma – as much as any of us, if not more. It would be inhumane–”

“Do not speak to   _me_ of humanity, _omnic_. A Bastion unit, a victim of war? Is this the drivel you pour into my brother’s ears as you offer him your comfort at night?”

“You are letting your prejudices cloud your judgment. Perhaps we should talk later, when you have had time to reconsider.”

“We will talk _now_. Do not presume to lord over me in my own home.”

“That is enough, I think,” Genji says, sliding open the shoji door and nodding curtly at the rapidly (guiltily) turned heads. “Master, I believe Lena was asking for you. Hanzo, a word, if I may.”

The room’s occupants share a tense, heavy silence, neither stirring, neither relenting. For a moment Genji is almost convinced he will have to physically drag his idiot brother out of the room and speak to him in the language he is sometimes convinced is the only one Hanzo actually understands, despite his fluency in others.

At last, Zenyatta folds out of seiza and glides towards the door. He inclines his head at Hanzo (the tersest Genji has ever seen his Master) and places a slender hand on Genji’s shoulderplate. (Because of course, his Master would think only of Genji’s comfort after he has spent a good two hours butting heads against the iron wall of Hanzo’s stubbornness.) A soothing pulse radiates through the small point of contact, washing over Genji’s body and cooling the transistors threatening to overheat. A smaller, private nod of thanks and encouragement at him, and then Genji is left in the room with his brother, who looks as torn as ever between jumping off the nearest cliff and embracing him tenderly and sending a not-so-tender arrow flying through him.

Genji pushes the door shut. He braces himself for another long and trying conversation. The room is smaller and danker than he recalls, as though it has not been aired out in some time. Its staleness is barely masked by the waft of incense burning on the tea table and the yeasty-sweet smell of overindulged sake beneath that. He gathers the reserves of his patience. He does not sit.

“Brother,” he begins. “We have discussed this matter at length. Bastion has done much to aid Overwatch in its recent efforts. The least we can do is provide it refuge in compensation. We are short of neither the space nor the resources to accommodate it here at the Castle.”

Hanzo seems to consider his answer for a long moment, with the stubborn-set jaw of a man who is exasperated at having to explain his reasoning time and time again to no avail. His brows are furrowed as he exhales heavily. “Shimada Castle,” he says, carefully enunciating each word as though speaking to a child (or perhaps that is simply the slur of drunkenness; Genji can no longer tell), “was never intended to house the burdens of the outside world. We are not short of space or resources because of the effort _I_ have put into restoring them. Do you suggest I welcome what may very well be our downfall into my home? The Bastion is not human, Genji. It has no alliance and so it has no place here.”

And he has the gall to say all of that while he stares intently at the tatami, determined to avoid Genji’s gaze. _Look at me!_ Genji wants to scream. _Look at me, damn it, and accept that this is who I am, that this is the consequence of what you’ve done. Am I so hideous you would rather no brother than a brother like this?_

“A pity,” he muses. “If you had only told me sooner I would not have imposed on you for our mission.”

The coldness of his tone is what finally jars Hanzo out of his indifference. His head jerks up, sudden and wide-eyed and incredulous (and clueless as always). “What are you talking about?”

“Bastion has no place in the Castle because it is not human, you say. Clearly as I myself am no longer a human in your eyes, I, too, must have no place here. Fortunate that I have long stopped considering Hanamura my home.”

He sees the sting of that register in Hanzo’s eyes; the flush of shame and the flinch of remorse. He sees also the newest offense added to the chain of regrets Hanzo flagellates himself with in the solitude of his mind, but he chooses to ignore it. Hanzo is determined to be left to his personalised feedback loop of regret and denial, and Genji does not have the patience to attempt a breakthrough.

“Still, that resentment is between you and me, and I have learnt to live with it, as it were,” he continues, gesturing at himself. “But my Master has done nothing to anger you. He cares for you greatly. I will not have you return his concern with bitterness and spite.”

“I do not spite him,” Hanzo says. His hands are balled into white-knuckled fists on his thighs.

“Oh,” Genji says, his voice rising, irate and embittered and tired of benevolence. “So your delightful exchange just then, where you spoke to him with none of the maturity or graciousness I know you’ve cultivated over the years – that was what, out of affection? Forgive me; I was unaware the long-wizened customs of the Shimada had changed so greatly in my absence.”

Hanzo’s nostrils flare. A muscle twinges in his cheek. “You will speak to me with respect,” he says through gritted teeth. His eyes are filled with that familiar indignant self-righteous anger he’d always assume during their squabbles as children and this – this is familiar ground; this is a game Genji will take pleasure in playing.

“If you cannot afford basic civility towards my Master then you cannot demand the same for yourself.”

“Yes, of course. Your _Master_ , who is dearer to you than your own family, than your own brother. Your Master, a false entity built of metal and powered by circuitry, whom you – whom you _consort_ with, whose dogma you’ve embraced and whose whims you’ve enslaved yourself to –”

“You are wrong,” Genji interrupts. “You are wrong, and I do not know how to make you see otherwise, stubborn as you are. Hanzo. I follow my Master of my own choice and desire. He has offered me life and purpose freely and I have accepted them without glancing back. And as for what he and I choose to do in privacy – that is none of your concern, brother, though this I recall you have always had difficulty understanding.”

“You are a fool,” Hanzo snaps. “It is _you_ who refuses to see the perils of entrusting yourself to an omnic. It is _you_ who refuses to see that I have never wanted anything but the best for you, that my every thought and every action has only ever been for – because of – so you don’t – but if I can’t –”

It’s a sight too obscene for Genji to watch, too private and unmediated: the hurt flashing across Hanzo’s face, the confusion and doubt and self-loathing twisting his handsome features into something raw and painful and anguished, the wetness in his eyes. Hanzo’s hands are clenched so hard that his nails must be cutting into his palms. His eyes are squeezed shut and he has turned his face away in humiliation. Genji follows the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest as he schools his breath, as he suppresses his weakness the way they were taught to from when they were weaned, with a sick fascination.

“How can I know that,” he hears clattering out of his voicebox, impossibly, involuntarily, “when you cannot even bear the sight of me now?” And the moment the echo of the words reaches him he knows what petty cruelty he has unleashed upon his brother, and he wants to claw at his throat to swallow the words back, dig at his brain to beat his anxieties into obedience. The guilt eats at his flesh (what remains of it) like acid, and he curses himself for his recklessness, for his imprudence. _Have you learned nothing? What worth are your words of wisdom if you yourself cannot live by them?_

“No,” Hanzo croaks out. “No. That is not – it is not – Genji,” he’s trying to say something, it sounds almost like an apology being retched out of him, but there is too much water blurring his eyes and choking his throat for him to finish the sentence. Genji’s heart is in his mouth; he is beside him immediately, kneeling by him, a hand on his shoulder and another tipping his face toward his own, thumbing away the tears from beneath hollow eyes and sallow cheekbones.

“I’m sorry,” he says, quietly. A hand reaches up to the one he has cupped around Hanzo’s jaw. It clasps his wrist for a moment, warm and urgent, trying to communicate what words have failed to. _Brother, brother, brother_ , his pulse chants. Then Hanzo is pulling his hand away and smoothing out an invisible wrinkle on his hakama, willing himself into composure.

Genji crosses his legs to seat himself more comfortably. He allows the unease to lapse away into a contemplative silence. His hand is a constant, warm pressure on Hanzo’s shoulder. When Hanzo is sufficiently re-collected (but has not had time to stew over the momentary slip-up), he says, “Our moral obligations concerning Bastion are…cloudy at best, brother, I know. But is it not possible to give the arrangement a chance? Winston and Doctor Ziegler are both ready to facilitate the rehabilitation it requires. Perhaps a wing farther from the centre, or perhaps we could consult with Torbjorn for additional security measures. The possibilities of letting it roam alone are far worse, at any rate.”

Hanzo frowns. “I have heard all of this.”

“But you are yet to be convinced?”

“But I am yet to make a decision that may endanger an entire district and its inhabitants. I will see the omnic later this week and think it over once again. Let the matter rest for now.”

“Very well. May I join you when you leave for your visit?”

“If you can wake before the crack of dawn, which I know for a fact you cannot,” Hanzo sniffs. And then he hiccups.

Genji laughs.

“We shall see.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so, so much to my beta, midnightluck, who spent valuable time 'nitpicking' over the terminology in this chapter to make sure I was not grossly misrepresenting any aspects of Japanese garden culture. 
> 
> Translations can be found at the end, but feel free to correct me if you feel I have used something incorrectly!

The problem with regret, Hanzo muses, is that it comes  _ after _ the deed has been done. Of course, it isn’t enough that he must shoulder the responsibility of both taking action  _ and _ dealing with the consequences. Shame and guilt must consume their share of him, too, and they like to savour his carcass.

He lifts his teacup for another sip and grimaces at the bland, powdery taste of the liquid. While he has been standing here stewing in self-pity, his tea has cooled in the evening breeze. He sets the teacup down and crosses his arms, leaning his weight against the balustrade. Below him, the tsubo-niwa is coming to life under a setting sun. Water begins drizzling into a shallow stone basin at the north-east corner. The stone lantern at its south-west flicks on, casting a forest’s silhouette across the garden. Maple leaves flare under the red and gold sunrays, setting the bamboo stalks ablaze.

He is broken out of his reverie by the rattle of the shoji as McCree steps into the balcony. The man is dressed as conspicuously as ever, even given his own yukata and obi. He is still wearing his pants and the folds of his robe are held together by that heinous belt. It is a small mercy he has chosen to forgo the hat.

“Whoa,” he says, with no greeting or acknowledgment otherwise. “Seems like a totally different place from what I saw in the mornin’.”

Hanzo’s breeding dictates he reply politely, though his solitude has been rudely disturbed and he was hoping to have the view to himself for a while longer. “The eastern walls block out natural light in this courtyard for most of the day,” he explains with the minimal eye-contact demanded by courtesy. “It was designed to take advantage of the sunset.”

McCree makes an impressed noise and shifts closer to Hanzo’s end of the balcony. He takes note of the half-drunk tea and the stern set of Hanzo’s jaw and snickers inanely, as he is wont to.

Hanzo raises an eyebrow. “I fail to see what is so humorous.”

“Oh, nah,” McCree says, flapping his hand. “Caught you at a bad time, did I?”

“Not quite,” Hanzo denies, tamping down on an instinctive bristle.

“Oh?” McCree leans in an inch closer. His eyes have a knowing, mischievous gleam to them – a gleam that has no place in the eyes of an almost-stranger. Their elbows are brushing and Hanzo can smell the acrid coffee on his breath. He shifts away so that there is a space of at least four fingers between them.

“No,” he says steadily. “Though your concern is touching.”

“Aw, shucks,” McCree says, and Hanzo would retort but the smirk on McCree’s face is genial and well-meaning, as though he is sharing an inside joke with him, as though they are two old friends accustomed to banter that edges on flirtation. And then, perhaps because Hanzo has been looking at him too flatly, or perhaps because his expression is too stony, he looks away, into the garden. “So what’s that moss doin’ on those rocks down there?”

Hanzo frowns. “It is moss,” he pronounces slowly. “It grows on rock in the presence of moisture.”

“Well golly gee!” McCree exclaims. “I learnt somethin’ new today!”

“If you wanted a sensible answer, you should have asked a sensible question,” Hanzo snaps. McCree grins and raises his hands in apology.

“My mistake,” he drawls. “What I meant was, it looks out of place. What with everything else bein’ so manicured. I would’ve thought you’d have the moss removed.”

Oh. Typical gaijin, confined to the short-sighted lens of the Western eye.

“The garden is not purely an aesthetic composition. It is an interpretation of nature,” Hanzo clarifies. “Therefore it incorporates both the detail of an artwork and the spontaneity of a natural landscape.”

“So you let the moss grow to keep things organic?”

“That is not all. The moss also balances the dullness of the rock, its rough texture. Therein lies a harmony.”

“Seems like a lot of thought was put into it for a garden so small.”

“Of course,” Hanzo concurs. “It is a pocket of tranquillity amidst the noise and grandeur of urbanisation, if you will.”

McCree hums. “…and you’re here because you needed that, huh?”

Hanzo stills, then eases the tension he can feel already building in his shoulders, in his grip on the handrail. He takes in a deep breath and releases it slowly, discretely. He should deny it. There is no reason to confide in an almost-stranger, and it would be undignified of him as a host. He should have found a reason to leave as soon as McCree had joined him.

But Hanzo has quickly realised something in the last few days: past that thick, gauche exterior, past the eccentricities and speech that sounds like it has been half-chewed and spat out, is a man with a history. A man with a shrewdness that spans the horizon, a wit as sharp as his aim. There is no point in lying to him. Whatever his intentions may have been when he entered the balcony, this is a gesture of understanding (perhaps even kindness, and kindness is not pity because pity is for the weak). This is an offering of release, of confidence, of an ally’s support.

Something irresistible tugs at Hanzo to succumb to that temptation (for that is what it is, a calloused fingertip scratching over an old wound, a seduction into slippery sheets and iron shackles, and no matter how far the chain may stretch, it will not give), and in a moment of whimsy (or weakness or the lingering spur of sake), he accepts, the first twinges of regret dogging at his heels.

He looks up to find McCree’s gaze fixed on him, patient and intent. The sunset frames him in purple and orange, edges the shag of his hair and the broad set of his shoulders in a pink halo. A flock of starlings crosses the line of trees behind him.

Hanzo licks his lips and takes a moment to piece together his answer. “I,” he starts, and then scowls at his own wavering. “I fear I have let my frustrations get the better of me. So yes, I needed to reflect on that.”

McCree remains silent, and Hanzo finds words spilling out against his will. “My brother,” he continues, barely suppressing a flinch at the release of that word into the air, solid and clear. So heavy, the English expression of what they had shared. So much weight, so much  _ burden _ . 

( _ Otouto _ , he used to call him. Soft and airy and carefree, rounded with affection and light as a balloon.  _ Aniki! _ he would call back, a grin in the title itself, a laugh in its pronunciation. That was before they had become  _ Genji _ and  _ Hanzo. _ Before they had become  _ Genji _ and  _ Onii-sama _ .)

“I have done wrong by him,” he manages. “Not – not once, nor twice. I have lost count, and I seem to have made a habit of it. I cannot stop, though I try.”

_ But do you try enough? Could you ever try enough? _

“And you think something you might’ve said recently was the last straw?” McCree asks. There’s a dip in his brow, a thoughtful twist to his mouth. The expression looks oddly youthful (naked) without his habitual cigarillo.

“Possibly,” Hanzo admits. “He has forgiven me time and time again, though for virtue of what I cannot imagine.” He shifts and straightens his posture. He can feel the soles of his tabi dampening with sweat.

_ Inhale, exhale. Turn to the garden, study its curves and its planes. Revel in its equilibrium. _

“Well.” McCree shifts his weight. “You obviously recognise that some of the blame is yours –”

“ _ Some _ of the blame?”

McCree gives him a neutral, assessing glance. “Most of it,” he concedes.

“ _ All _ of it.”

“Look,” he evades. “You’re better at this self-reflectin’ stuff than I am. Have you figured out what makes you tick every time you try to make amends?”

“Impossible,” Hanzo shakes his head. “Amends cannot be made for what has passed between us. I am not so selfish as to humiliate him with an apology.”

“Okay,” McCree persists. “But have you thought about why your attempts anyway never work out?”

Hanzo bites back the automatic petulance that rises up at that.  _ Of course I’ve thought about it; do you take me for an oaf like yourself? _ Because he has not. To think is to reconsider, to stop, to fall back, and to do either of those is to crumble and perish. When one balances on frail stilts, one must not look back, or down. Look forward, look to the future. Accept what has passed and aim at the next target. There is no accountability for an assassin. The alternative, no matter how real it seems, no matter how it pokes and prods at him with its renewed blade and gimlet-eyed stare, is too painful to consider.

He grits his teeth. “I think I will head back indoors. My obligations await. Enjoy your evening, McCree.”

“Jesse, please,” comes the reply. No other objections, no dig at his cowardice. He turns and the man is smiling at him, soft and, if Hanzo were inclined to sentimentality, wistful. His hair has been tousled into an unruly mess by the breeze, and it falls over his face in places. Here, gilded by the red glaze of the dying sun, cloaked in the darkness swallowing up the sky, he looks like a lost soul, like he could be vanished by the wind at the bat of an eyelash.

“Jesse, then,” Hanzo permits as he gathers his teacup and prepares to leave. He pauses. “You were not at the table for lunch. Join me for supper later, if I haven’t tired you of my company already?”

The smile widens. “Be a pleasure.”

Below them, the sozu clacks as it touches rock. A moment later, the slow trickle of water can be heard again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> _tsubo-niwa_ : Courtyard garden   
> _yukata_ : A light, casual garment; a summer kimono   
> _obi_ : A broad sash, used to fasten a kimono, yukata, martial arts uniform or the like  
>  _gaijin_ : Foreigner; may be used with a derogatory connotation   
> _sake_ : Rice wine  
>  _otouto_ : What Itachi calls Sasuke. Literally, 'younger brother'.   
> _aniki_ : Older brother  
>  _onii-sama_ : Older brother; the -sama makes this term more distanced than 'aniki'.   
> _tabi_ : A thick-soled ankle sock with a division between the big toe and other toes  
>  _sozu_ : A type of water fountain, comprising a separate tube (usually of bamboo), that accumulates water from a supply stream or supply pipe, and then pivots to dispense the water into a basin or another stream. It is a type of shishi-odoshi, a wide range of devices used to scare away animals that could threaten agriculture or vegetation.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to midnightluck, as usual, for walking me in baby steps through the basics of shrine architecture and Shinto culture. Thanks also to MattsyKun here at the archive for their advice on Inari shrine architecture. 
> 
> The shrine depicted in this chapter is, in fact, an Inari shrine, though whether it exists in reality or not I don't know. A lot of the design elements were inspired by the Fushimi Inari Shrine in Kyoto (particularly the torii trail) and bits and pieces scraped from my memory of anime. If you find any inaccuracies, please don't hesitate to iron them out for me. 
> 
> An important element of this chapter is based very much off [schmogg's lovely genyatta art](http://schmogg.tumblr.com/post/150214044668/i-lovehate-animating-hands). [This scene](http://schmogg.tumblr.com/post/149516999388/twitter-voted-the-next-animation-to-be-something-w) is an absolute favourite of mine and is what inspired me to write this fic in the first place. Schmogg is wonderfully talented and amazing and inspirational; go give their tumblr a visit if you haven't already!

A balmy, persistent warmth on his plating prompts the flicker of his biolights as his systems activate. His waking is anticlimactic and unsatisfactory. There is no smooth transition between the darkness of his visor and the brightness of day. There is no buffer between the endless cycle of running from (and through) the shadowy beasts of his mind and the crunching stone mill of  _ mission-duty-morals _ , marching resolutely forward, grains of sand falling unhindered through the glass as he darts about scrambling to catch them all.

Sunlight has broken into the room, washing the hastily swept tatami around the futon a flaxen yellow. A trio of painted ladies are flittering about outside the window. He rises and glances through it to find Zenyatta sitting in the outer corridor, leaning against the room’s wall. In his hand is a dandelion (trodden, no doubt), and it’s between the flower and his fingers that the butterflies are frolicking.

His presence, unobtrusive though it is, is noticed within moments. Zenyatta tilts his head towards him, palm still outstretched and the insects perching on his fingers.

“Good morning,” he says. There’s that intimate, playful lilt to his voice, the one that’s cradled somewhere between  _ I know something you don’t _ and  _ Genji, my  _ brightest  _ pupil _ . “Did you sleep well?”

“Rather too well, it seems,” he groans. “I should have been awake some time ago.”

His Master hums. “You deserve the rest,” he says. He moves the index and middle fingers of his hand in a smooth cycling motion, as though untangling threads of spider-silk from between them. The butterflies flutter madly as they are dislodged and head off towards the azalea bush in the side-garden. “You have worked hard at maintaining the diplomacy here.”

Genji sighs. If it would relieve him even slightly, he would rub at his forehead. “I do not think I am well-suited to the task.”

“I do not think any of us feel very suited to the weight of peacekeeping.”

Genji scoffs and Zenyatta carries on, smile tucked between his words. “…disregarding how dubious said peacekeeping is. But you have the judgment to recognise a need where there is one, and the courage to do what must be done to fulfil it.”

Or maybe he’s just dragging their predicament by the tail and hoping not too many comrades will be surrendered to the aftermath, Genji is tempted to retort, but he has made himself a vow and he has the restraint - and respect - to keep it. Zenyatta is a wellspring of patience, optimism, objectivity. He would know light intimately had he lived his entire life inside a rock; that is the essence of his being, his vision (hah). Genji has spent a great many years gleaning that knowledge from him, learning to navigate the darkness through new eyes, but at times like this he is sharply reminded of the limitations of his body (always lacking, never fulfilling a function without the alien precision sewn into his flesh), of his mind, of his desire to assimilate.

He attempts to steer the conversation in a safer direction as earnestly as he can. “And you, Master? Have you rested? How did you find your accommodations?”

“Very generous,” Zenyatta supplies. After a moment, he adds, “You do not need to worry for me, Genji.”

Genji makes a clicking noise at that and feels (lets) the age-old annoyance creep into his voice. “You give too much of yourself to everyone else, and you assume the best of others. Hanamura is not a kind place, Master, and neither is much of the world. Of course I worry for you. They do not know to appreciate who you are, what you have to give. I cannot—”

He comes to a halt as his self-awareness catches up with the foot in his mouth. He clears his throat and musters the will to look up. Zenyatta has turned entirely toward him now, and though the slant of his shoulders is as benign as ever, the careful stillness in how he holds himself – a posture only Genji’s eyes are privy to, a glimpse at the vulnerability beneath unrelenting kindness – floods him with distress.

“I am sorry. I have...overstepped my boundaries. I have not been able to keep a hold of myself as of late, and my thoughts run rampant.”  _ And I seem to be apologising far too frequently, and – shit, I just said that, didn’t I, I just implied what is not true, what is the opposite of true. _

(And here he was confident he could finally be trusted not to break  _ precious-fragile-crystalline _ things.)

Zenyatta reaches across the sill (dust-speckled; further evidence his home is not in this glorified tribute to blood money) to place a hand on Genji’s forearm. He clasps it and thumbs abstract geometric patterns into the ridges and rifts of the sinew.

“There is no need to apologise,” he says, quietly. His gaze seems to pierce through Genji’s visor. It curls through his chest and harmonises to the stampede of his heartbeat, coaxing it into a decrescendo.  _ I understand _ is implied between them. The first words that had reached Genji through layers of circuitry and hydraulics and implants, and the two that most mattered because of the sheer magnitude of truth in them. He does.  _ He does. _

“Well, not for that at least,” his Master amends. And then his voice takes on a cheerful note. “But I do recall you mentioning an exquisite shrine located in the mountains here, and you have yet to take me there.”

“Ah!” Genji chuckles. “I’ve been remiss in my duties. I will have to rectify that. Today, perhaps, after breakfast?”

“That would be wonderful.”

 

* * *

 

 

They stand in front of the first of the torii. It towers over them, painted brilliantly in vermillion and black. A light breeze fiddles with the paper streamers embellishing the rope between its beams. Daylight beams down at them through the canopy overhead, dappling the paved path into the shrine.

Zenyatta’s sandals clack as they touch the ground. He looks around in quiet wonder at the vastness of the space. Trees carpet the mountain from vale to crest, soothing the eye and calming the mind. In the distance, he can hear the gurgle of a brook.

Zenyatta has taken care to visit as many sacred sites and places of worship as he could during his travels. It is his familiarity with the countless and diverse ways man has come to know the spirit realm that fuels his will and sustains his hope for their world – the security of knowing, without doubt, that there is always an answer; of knowing what can be articulated only through experience.

The most time, however, has of course been spent at the Shambali temples of Nepal, amidst firelit stone chambers and billowing robes. He first knew serenity as the pink-tinged glare of sunrise across an ice-white sky, as the dusting of fresh-fallen snow on the planks of the bridging between houses, as the resilient poke of grass blades through cracks in the paving even as storms threatened to snuff them out. And so it is both a humbling and novel experience for him to learn  _ Genji’s _ serenity, to know  _ his _ retreat – a place so different from his own, bursting with life and birdsong, echoing with the laughter of the trees and beckoning him within, and all the same offering up the whisper of the earth for those who wish to hear it.

They walk along the pathway in the same companionable silence they had shared on the bus ride to the entrance, Genji leading the way. In places, the paving is slippery with moss and browning leaves that crackle under their feet. Stone hokora occasionally rise out of the undergrowth, accompanied by kitsune adorned in scarlet bibs. Here and there, the path forks off into smaller fern-spangled trails.

“They lead to many other sites on the grounds, some with sub-shrines for private worship and others without,” Genji explains as he ducks under a willow branch. “Some of them end at viewing decks on the cliffs. Some of them are so unfrequented that they are no longer usable and have been closed off.” He laughs fondly. “I used to slip through their barricades whenever I could. I liked to pretend I was a great adventurer and play at getting lost.” He liked to remove himself from the snares of the Castle; liked to pretend there was nothing else in the world except him and the forest; liked to pick at the things the walls of his home kept out and gorge himself on them.    

“Perhaps you can show me one of your old haunts when we leave the main shrine,” Zenyatta suggests wryly.

“Oh,  _ my _ . Such a dangerous life you lead, Master.”

Zenyatta tips his head back and laughs. They bicker back and forth until they stand at the foot of a series of steps leading up to the second torii, on either side of which sit two fox-like gargoyles feeding water into shallow pools around the pillars. A well-tended cherry tree stands to the left.

“Ah,” Genji says. “It is not far from here to the inner shrine.”

Indeed, Zenyatta notes, the forest has thinned somewhat, with brighter sunlight smiling down on wildflowers and the loamy scent of the forest floor tempered by grass. The sound of running water is louder now, and as if reading his mind, Genji notes, “There are a few streams that flow down the mountain. If I remember correctly, we should pass one on the way.”

He enters through the gate and waits until his Master has fallen into step with him before continuing. The trail here is broader and less cluttered with foliage. The miniature shrines, rooted to the ground or crooked between branches, are more numerous. Wind chimes tinkle from overhanging branches and their footsteps reflexively harmonise to the rhythm, pensive and unhurried.

They reach the brook as promised. Zenyatta delights in the glittering scales of carp basking in sunlight, in the trill of a woodpecker as it drinks from the flow, the flurry of a chipmunk as it is alerted to his presence and abandons its bath. He kneels at the edge and dips his fingertips into the cool water, tucks away the memory of ripples distorting his reflection to savour later.

A planked red bridge takes them across the water to the five hundred metre uphill stairway leading to the main shrine, straddled by a chain of smaller torii. At its foot is another large cherry tree, littering the stone paving with its sweet-scented petals (like snow, even here). An elaborate shimenawa is slung low on the very first torii, strung with tassels and fox masks. Ornate lanterns protrude from every fourth pillar within, polished and gleaming red, the candles invisible behind their frosted screens. Sunlight filters between them, flooding the passage in an orange glow, flickering with the chance flutter of a bird between the pillars.

“This was one of my favourite parts of the shrine grounds,” Genji reminisces. He brushes his fingers against the cherry tree’s trunk, careful so as not to dislodge the flaking bark, reverent. “It is said the torii mark entrances to a place where the spirit realm and physical realm overlap. Nothing quite captured that experience for me as walking through this trail.”

“It is very beautiful,” Zenyatta murmurs. “I recall a similar one at an Inari shrine I visited two years ago, by the shore. It was night when I made the walk, and high tide. I could smell the salt and seaweed even from the cliffs. The starlight in the open sky, the candlelight from the lamps – it was a truly marvellous experience.”

“Indeed,” Genji agrees, but he is cut off by a moth that braves close enough to his helm to feather its wings against it, buzzing curiously after the flutter of his scarf. It traces the swish of fabric every which way, intent on its target. The sight is utterly endearing, untainted by the haggard impressions of the outside world.

The rest of the walk is appreciated in silence, with the occasional brush of their shoulderplates as they scale the steep flight. When at last they reach the vast clearing of the inner complex, Zenyatta must reset his visuals against the sudden glare of unfiltered daylight.

Here, countless cherry trees curtain the haiden and its two flanking structures, their great boughs arching skyward, petals sweeping across the pruned garden and gravelled walkway. The kitsune guarding the prayer hall’s majestic doors are large and uncannily lifelike, holding gilt sheaves of rice in their jaws, eyes enamelled in jade. Wind chimes and shimenawa adorn the exposed beams and majestic curl of the rooftop. Reed lanterns fitted with rattles sway from the second-storey terrace, colour-coordinated in red and green and gold with the lampposts below.

To one side of the vast courtyard is an elevated gazebo housing the temizuya. Bamboo ladles are assembled neatly over the water trough for their convenience. They perform a simple ablution in silence and contribute a generous donation at the entrance to the haiden. Genji sounds the bell and offers a silent prayer (for ease, for peace, for restoration). It’s somewhat awkward, finding the right words – it has been long since he last visited the inner shrine, and even longer since he has prayed.

When he turns around, prepared to leave, he finds Zenyatta looking about the courtyard. He follows the path of a miko as she sweeps petals off the plaza. His fingers twitch as he regards the ema, as though tempted to rifle through the wishes written on its plates. His gaze rests on the kagura-den and he cocks his head.

“Have you seen a kagura dance before, Master?” Genji asks.

“Sadly, no,” Zenyatta sighs. “But I would love to. You must have had many an opportunity to, during your childhood.”  

“The dance was performed quite frequently during festivals here,” Genji admits, “but I was impatient in those days, and could not quite appreciate it. I would sneak off through the crowds for more candied apples and give my caretaker a fright.”

The smirk in his voice is clearly not missed by Zenyatta, who quips, “I would not say you do not give me a fright now and then, either.”

“Perhaps, but you are not my caretaker.”

Zenyatta’s hand touches his own briefly. “No, I am not,” he agrees, and his voice is soft and intent.

Genji inhales sharply and stares at his Master for a long two seconds. Something courses through him then, heavy and light and hot and cold at once; it rushes through his veins and confuses his nerves and settles in his stomach, fluttering like moth wings.

He swallows around a tight throat and takes Zenyatta’s hand.

“Shall we, ah. Shall we head to my old haunt, then?” he asks, feeling an inexplicable urge to move, to dash through the trees and mud and streams until he finds himself truly secluded with his Master, until they trip and land into an undisturbed haven amidst these sacred grounds; alone, away.

“Please, lead the way.”

And so he does. They stop by an omikuji booth, where Zenyatta shakes the canister and retrieves an innocuously coloured paper slip. Genji snorts at the reading and advises him to tie it around the branch of a lifeless tree already adorned with many others, under the watchful gaze of a priest walking by. He walks them back through the torii passageway and deep into one of the abandoned trails, through dense forest sweltering underneath the midday sun. They cross a (once) decorative pond overrun by lily pads, skipping (or hovering, rather) over weathered stepping stones, and through it all, Genji is mute, apprehension a thundering orchestra in his head, in his chest. If Zenyatta notices, he does not mention it, mild and amicable as ever. He makes idle chatter, admires the masonry of a few grass-infested hokora, coos at a nest of hatchling sparrows twittering at his orbs.

When at last they arrive at the intended clifftop, the sun is an hour closer to setting. The altitude shades the sky a rich, endless blue and the air smells distinctly clean, as though it too has broken free of the canopy shuttering it out. Genji feels the first wisps of cloud brush against his frame and is momentarily transported back to his boyhood, to the many hours he would spend in solitude here amidst the eagles and pale grass and the old cherry tree by the edge, sitting on that very rock at the end of the weed-cloistered footpath, breathing in the perfume of crushed leaves and pretending he could fly.

He could do it now, he thinks. In fact, he is very tempted to, and holds himself back only out of awareness of the man accompanying him. The sensors on his plating do not register the smell and feel and taste of his sanctuary the way his young and healthy skin had – there is, Genji has discovered, a fine and impermeable threshold between experiencing an experience and experiencing the  _ synthesis _ of that experience. Even if they could, too much has changed for the picture to be complete: his rock has been whipped sharp by wind and its wounds salved by moss, the grass is tall enough that they will need to wade through it. Age has bent the tree at its spine and withered its trunk. The flowers it bears are fewer and more prized for their rarity.

But his heart knows, and his body remembers, and there is beauty itself in the reshaping of those buried fragments, in feeling the condensation on his metallic frame and the tightening of his augmented muscle in response to the altitude. There is wonder in the transformation brought by his added height – he has learnt too well how perspective elucidates only facets of a larger picture, but to  _ see _ that for himself is something else. His haunt is cosier than he recalls; the thick carpet of forest below is no longer worlds away and the sky no longer a hand’s reach above. The place has grown older; or perhaps  _ he  _ has outgrown it, charged forward and away without a second glance, crossed the seas and forgotten the piece of himself that had nourished the soil here. But  _ it  _ has remembered him, matured his presence in its chilly air under sunrise and moonrise like fine sake, and now it welcomes him back and enshrouds him in  _ safe _ and  _ home _ and  _ mine _ and  _ belonging _ .  

“It is a lovely view,” Zenyatta hums from behind him, and he realises he has lost himself to his surroundings once more, stepped close enough to the cliff’s brink to warrant concern and forgotten his company altogether. He feels his cheeks heat in embarrassment.

“Ah, yes,” he agrees, turning back towards his Master. “Thank you,” he adds awkwardly.

“No,” Zenyatta says. “Thank  _ you _ for showing me this place. I can feel how close it is to your heart. You have my word, Genji – I will cherish what you have chosen to entrust me with.”

“And I would rather none other than you to share it with,” Genji returns. Now that he is here, now that he can feel his destination under his feet and hear their privacy in the silence of even the trees behind them, he is at ease. Here, in the most secret of spaces, there are no questions to be answered, no one to answer  _ to _ . There is nothing to do but surrender himself to the onslaught of  _ sight-smell-taste-feel-sound _ , perhaps thread a crown from the dandelions or dangle his feet over the edge. The world could end and this place would remain untouched (in fact, it already has).

“You were a brave child, to venture so far by yourself, past the safety parameters,” Zenyatta muses. He stands abreast with Genji, looking at the lazy sprawl of woodland and valley below. They can trace the streams and many pathways of the shrine grounds from here, dotted with red bridges and rails and torii.

“I was a foolish mule of a child, is what my brother would say, and he would be right,” Genji snorts. He sits on the ground by the rock, leaning against its silky-mossy cushion and stretching his legs out. "Oh, I was strong and familiar enough with the terrain that it was never too much of a concern, but my caretaker would never have allowed it. I bribed my father into overruling her iron fist.”

“And what did you bribe your father with?” Zenyatta asks. Amusement lightens his tone as he seats himself on the rock, easily repositioning Genji’s head so it leans back in his lap. “Good behaviour for a working week? No throwing food at your brother at dinner that evening, perhaps?”

“I promised him I wouldn’t behead anyone at the weekly meetings with the clan elders, besides actually being present at them.”

“Ah, I see.”

Genji turns his head incredulously from where it rests. “You, Master? I sincerely think not.”

Zenyatta laughs and tweaks playfully at Genji’s scarf. “Truly, I do. Surely you do not take me for a being of perfect tolerance, Genji. You know me better. I am not a god.”

“Your name is  _ literally _ Zenyatta,” Genji says, but his flat delivery is somewhat ruined by the soft weight of his Master’s (partner’s, lover’s) name in his voicebox. Zenyatta simply hums again and strokes his thumbpads behind Genji’s antennae, over the helm of his visor.

They fall into quiet, each occupied by their own thoughts. Genji plucks one of Zenyatta’s orbs from its revolution and absently toys with it between his hands. He presses his fingertips into its kinks and etchings, turns it over this way and that, as mesmerised by it as the first time.

The wind blows strong and chilling around them, stranding them in its currents, in limbo. Zenyatta’s fingers are gentle and warm in contrast, soothing down the back of his head and eventually the sensitive plating of his first few backstruts. A thumb kneads at the corded muscle at the joint of his neck and shoulder. He leans into the touch and one of Zenyatta’s hands curl over his nape, reaching down across his collarbone to rest over the left side of his breastplate, pulsing to the beat of his heart.

“I don’t,” Genji remarks.

“Hmm?”

“You said I know you better.”  _ (And that you are not a god, but you may very well be mi—) _

Zenyatta stills. “You do not think you know me well enough?”

“I am not a fool, Zenyatta,” he says quietly. “If you wish for things between us to remain as they are while we share – this –” he gestures between them, “I will respect that. But I will not delude myself for false comfort.”

Zenyatta is soundless long enough that for a moment Genji thinks he will not respond at all. His fingers resume their massage, his orbs their swivelling. “I do not want to push you,” he admits, finally.

The sentiment warms Genji, but. “I will not break, Master.”

“Will you not?”

“I will not. Not in this.” And here he had thought he was alone in his worries. “I swear it. But there is a condition.”

“Anything.”

“Swear me the same.”

He receives an affectionate pat to his head for his trouble, as though a child being placated (as though a broken man being mended). “Oh, Genji.”

He tightens his hands around the orb. “Please.”

“I swear.”  _ Of course. Anything. Always. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translations: 
> 
> _tatami_ : A mat used as floor covering, traditionally constructed with a straw core  
>  _torii_ : The gateway of a Shinto shrine  
>  _hokora_ : Miniature Shinto shrines  
>  _kitsune_ : Foxes as depicted in Japanese folklore  
>  _haiden_ : The hall of worship in a Shinto shrine  
>  _shimenawa_ : A length of rice straw rope, used either for purification or to mark a boundary to a sanctuary or holy ground, usually strung with shide (zigzag paper streamers)  
>  _temizuya_ : An ablution pavilion containing a water trough with ladles for ablution (temizu)  
>  _kagura_ : A Shinto theatrical dance


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ( ͡º ͜ʖ ͡º)

At a height of a good five thousand metres, the cold is biting enough that the difference between skin and alloy is rendered null. It doesn’t matter that there is technically still blood pumping through his chest; his torso is in harmony with his extremities (and wouldn’t that make the omnic monk proud) and his body is (finally) one with his soul, reduced to a numb husk dragging its feet through the ice on autopilot.

He’s made good progress through the snow and wind, all things considered. The terrain is unforgiving, steep and unassisted in the absence of pilgrims, rock and ice melding into an endless, jagged, monochromatic descent. He has yet to become fully accustomed to his new limbs, and further yet to effectively coordinate them into obedience when they are frozen stiff, snowflakes pocketed into their joints.

_Like a fawn learning to stand on its hooves_ , Doctor Ziegler had said. _Stay with us a while longer, Genji. We have a team of engineer recruits joining us next week; I’m sure they can contribute some new ideas for your organic-to-cybernetic calibration_.

_I’d rather not_ , he had replied. _You’ve done enough as it is_ . (After brief reconsideration, he’d added a somewhat embarrassed, _Thank you_.)

The monastery no longer looms behind him, though thought the foot of the mountain is still obscured by a sea of rolling clouds. A cheery beep of notification warns him that his systems are running low, and in record time, his biolights begin to flash. He sighs and reaches into his jute rucksack for a spare battery pack. His fingers scrape against the rough material of the allocated pouch as he extracts it – wonderful; he’s down to his last. This is what he gets for leaving in a hurry. (Though if it wasn’t in a hurry, he’d probably never end up leaving; that monk’s words are as sweet and sticky as kuromitsu, and they’d keep him well put.)

He switches his systems to backup power (like a fucking phone) and replaces the dry cell, then switches back to power saving mode. Dusk is creeping closer to the horizon and with it comes a snowstorm; he’ll have to take cover if he’s to have any hope of reaching the next village by midday tomorrow. He scans his surroundings for any burrows in the rock, any hollow mounds of snow. The ground here is unsuitable for tent pegs, and he doesn’t have the patience to affix them at this point anyway. His scanner identifies a hole sixty metres off the trail, tucked below a ledge jutting from the escarpment to his right. The rock looks solid enough that it won’t collapse under the weight of a fresh deposit of snow.

He half-walks and half-climbs his way to the cave, scrabbling for footholds within the slick, sharp rock, each step stinging as though knives are digging into his heels. And isn’t that funny, that for all his lacking human bits he is still crippled by the base human sensation of pain. He remembers a story like this from the picture books his father would read to him while he tossed about in his cot, about a mermaid who had given her voice for human legs, who felt like she was walking over knives with every step she took to dance for her beloved. Except he’s no fair maiden besotted with a human prince (quite the opposite, until recently), and he hasn’t chosen the legs he’s been given, and the only dancing he’s doing is the mad scramble for self-preservation, which refuses to be stamped out despite his best efforts.

He spreads the woven mat from his village chambers onto the cave floor and settles onto it, leaning back against the rock. The bitter cold from outside circulates into a damp, earthy coolness within. His system diagnostics advise him to replenish his antifreeze reserve, to dust or melt out the snow from between his parts. And he should find a recharging station as soon as possible.

Later, perhaps. Night is falling and he’ll have plenty of time before he needs to head out again. He can afford to offline his visuals for a bit.

 

* * *

 

 

_That was quite the exit._

_Yes. Evidently I was scaring the children._

_The children are not afraid of you because you are a cyborg. They are afraid of you because they sense your jealousy towards them._

_Excuse me?_

_You anger at their purity, their joy. You resent that you cannot have the same. It is understandable. But ruining their experience will not bring you any comfort._

_You know nothing of how I feel or what I want._

_Come with me to the lotus pond. I can help you cool your anger._

_Don’t presume to tell me what to do._

_Spoken like a true prince. I see Master Zenyatta’s words have yet to reach you. Such a shame._

The conversation runs circles in his mind, lap after lap after lap. He had known that attending the monthly feast would be a disastrous idea; had known that, after weeks spent being embraced by the Shambali monks _because of_ his synthetic chassis (and of feeling a silent conceit in his greater likeness to man than them), he would not respond well to the humid press of so many people with flesh bodies and faces and hands inside the temple halls.

Yet he had allowed himself to be coaxed into the unyielding optimism that drove the monastery, and it followed, of course, that he’d soured the initiating sermon with his presence, and left the room fuming.

As if paying a visit to a permanently frozen pond with ice-sculpted lotuses would undo what had happened. As if spending said visit trailed by some maddeningly naïve, holier-than-thou _robot_ would do anything to unravel the knot of hurt and fury tearing at his seams. He’d made his way, instead, to where his feet always took him across the meandering expanse of stone and snow – the patio off the side exit from Zenyatta’s room.

And there he stands now, katana in hand, mentally checklisting the drills he’ll go through, the techniques he’ll work on developing. By virtue of being sandwiched between the main complex and the rock face to its left, the courtyard receives the least snowfall, and is therefore the most convenient to practice his kata in. Meditation has never quite worked for him, not in his training as an assassin and not at the monastery’s Hall of Solace and certainly not at the lotus pond. (It’s only ever worked the once, actually, and that was when he had Zenyatta’s gentle hands guiding him, his sonorous voice steering him.) And even if he were to meditate, he is in no condition to focus now; there is too much pent-up aggression clouding his mind and very little he can do in the way of fucking or fighting to subdue it. So he makes do with what he can.

 

* * *

 

 

They sit upon a donated rug, leaning against cushions sagging with age and de-aerated stuffing. Incense burns in the small brass pot by the fireplace and candles flicker as a breeze swirls through the pavilion. The skies are rather clear for a winter noon, and a few large-winged birds cross the stretch of sky visible to Zenyatta from his angle to the front entrance. He picks up on the smell of momo and chutni, lingering over the ever-present undercurrent of frost and damp soil, as a handful of stragglers carry away the leftovers from their feast.

“Then your intention is that all seventy-or-so of us remain here, in the mountains, forever?” he asks, without preamble. The thought has been bothering him ever since the morning’s sermon (or rather, ever since Genji had stormed from the Dharma Hall _during_ the sermon, with a frail leash on his wrath) and he is keen to deliberate over it.

“For as long as the world requires us, yes,” Mondatta replies. His face is turned attentively towards the waistcloth he is mending, his fingers weaving the needle dexterously through the thick fabric as he sews torn seams together.

“But do you not think that – well. What of the men and omnic who live on the other side of the world, who do not know of the hope we have to offer them? What of those who cannot make the pilgrimage?”

“Zenyatta, we have discussed this. There is no need to fret. We will arrange entourages from the brotherhood to reach out to those of whom you speak. We will do our utmost to ensure that there is not a single soul on the planet whose pleas for relief are unanswered, to whom our message is unknown.”

He ducks his head at the faintly patronising tone his brother has taken, feeling oddly chastised by the implied exasperation. He resets his vocaliser and turns his attention to threading his needle and starting on his own pile of robes. “Yes,” he acknowledges. “But can a sermon, no matter how well-attended, do more than reiterate for those who are already in agreement with us? What of those who are locked in battle, or those who cannot integrate with the populace, for whom a generic message is more harm than good? What of those who loathe us and refuse to hear what we have to share?”

“Well,” Mondatta says kindly. “Those are excellent considerations, Zenyatta, but they fail to account for the fact that there are only so many of us in number, and that this monastery was established first and foremost as a refuge for omnic such as ourselves. Those who are already in agreement with our creed are those who are most vulnerable, and thus those who have my priority. I cannot risk the violence and discord attempting to go beyond that will bring to our doorstep.”

“But if we proceed slowly, and with care, then surely –”

“Slow and careful will not put an end to the massacres that take place every day. We must educate the masses. What would we do if we were to take your suggestion and find our lives endangered in the process?”

“We have the capacity to defend ourselves, and to protect the innocent.”

“Perhaps,” Mondatta agrees. He speaks softly and gently, as though lightening a blow, as though his words are warring between the greatest love and the greatest grief. “But the majority of us have sworn to strict pacifism.”

Zenyatta sighs. “Whereas I have not,” he concedes, realising the direction this conversation will take.

“Yes,” Mondatta says. There’s something of a light smile in his voice now, in the brighter gleam of his headlights. Encouragement and unmitigated acceptance, joy in another’s joy. Mondatta has never been one to hold others back. “You shine in your independence, Zenyatta, and thus you are capable of realising what our numbers cannot. I have faith in your approach and I have utmost faith in _you_. If your reflections lead you to feel that yours is the right way, then go, and do what we cannot. And should you at any point choose to return, we will welcome you with open arms.”

He hums. This is the answer he will learn to be satisfied with, and in truth it is the answer he had known he would receive. He had hoped…but that was an idealistic dream, an innocent child’s fervent desire to wed their mother when they are of age. Opposite him, Mondatta has finished with his own lot of kasaya and moved on to the maintenance of accessories, as deft with these finer necessities as with coarse textile – a frayed waistband, a tarnished set of bells, a torn string of beads, an orb whose carvings have been clogged with slush. No rest for the wicked, they say. They could not be more wrong.

“If you don’t mind,” Mondatta asks, “What inspired you to speak your mind today?”

“Today?”

“You have been somewhat reticent in voicing your concerns to me since our last conversation, and so I waited until you felt it best to approach me again. Why today?”

“Oh,” he says, and he sets aside his mending. “Oh, no, I did not mean to shun you, if that is how it appeared. I simply needed time to contemplate my doubts. It is not that I was spurred into action today so much as I have been thinking about it for a good two weeks, and it culminated in the happenstances of today’s sermon.”

“Ah, this is regarding our friend Genji, then?”

“Yes. His example has led me to realise that I will not be able to help all who cross my path if I remain here. There is serenity and solitude in Annapurna, and I am offered an objectivity from which I can survey the world and its inhabitants, from which I can survey knowledge and existence itself. But to observe the flight of a butterfly is not to fly in its place, and how can I dare to speak for such a being if I cannot see what it sees?”

“He has taught you to appreciate subjectivity.”

“He has taught me to appreciate a great many things, though he would not take my word for it. He has found what you hoped he would in our midst; he has found acceptance for his state of being, but our world, with its intangible truths and ideals – it suffocates him. He accuses us frequently of empty platitudes, of naiveté and privilege.”

Mondatta snorts at this, and Zenyatta laughs reflexively. “Oh, there is humour in what he has to say, but there is immense suffering also. I thought perhaps he had closed off his mind to me, but I have come to realise that it is perhaps as much my own limitation as it is his.”

One of the candles in the chandelier overhead has melted to a stub and is releasing faintly pungent smoke. Mondatta rises to replace it, rummaging through the supply boxes on the shelf behind them. “Well,” he says as he strikes a match, “the human monks who built this monastery were a nomadic lot. They made their rounds on foot to the chantries, and they sought shelter within these walls in the winters. I see no reason why you cannot follow their example. Perhaps in doing so you will find some insight as to how you can come to Genji’s aid.”

“Indeed.”

“Though I would advise you to make haste with your patchwork first, else our brothers will have nothing with which to fend off the cold, come evening.”

“Time is an illusion,” Zenyatta protests serenely, though he sets aside the patched kasaya and rethreads his needle for the more delicate cloth of an uttarsanga.

“The illusion is about to run out,” Mondatta teases, and he reaches over to help.

 

* * *

 

 

When he returns to his quarters, it is with a simple set of wraps he has hemmed for Genji, should he like to don them, and the beginnings of a mustard-yellow waistcloth for himself to wear on the journey he may undertake. The sun floats toward the horizon, bathing the ice-capped peaks in red-violet and gold-pink and ushering a shawl of stars to dress the sky. He busies himself with the regular upkeep of his room in preparation for the night: drawing the curtains, lighting the torches, kindling the fire in the fireplace and dressing the straw-filled mattress in the corner by it, rolling out a wash-softened mat to sit and meditate on. A hamper with laundered robes and sheets sits by the entrance; he folds and stores them away. His loom sits unattended by the window; he muses on a design for the scarf he will weave for Genji.

His peripherals alert him to the dangerous flicker of the candles on the tea table as wind gusts through the room, and he realises that the door to the left courtyard has been opened and frost accumulated in the doorway. He gathers a shovel to sweep it clean and finds Genji balanced precariously on the banister outside.

“You tempt fate, sitting here like this,” he remarks, walking to him.

“This is nothing,” Genji replies, without a glance at him. His gaze is focused on the asymmetric rise and fall of the mountains above and below and around them, as though he is visualising a different place in their stead. When Zenyatta does not respond, Genji turns to him and calmly asks, “Do you think I am prideful?”

Zenyatta considers his answer. There is a boy within the young man who brims with well-earned confidence and pride and astounding talent. There is a dragon within him that quakes with the weight of its power, its glory, its vengeance. There is also the young man himself, who cements the bricks of his being with arrogance and vanity so as to hold it together, to plaster the (many, many) cracks in his construction, to glue together the pieces of a shattered urn.

“I do not think you overestimate your prowess, if that is what you are asking,” he circumvents.

Genji huffs. “That _isn’t_ what I was asking, but thank you for the vote of confidence.”

“My apologies. If you would like an honest answer–”

“No, it’s fine,” Genji interrupts. “I’m sorry I came here without asking.”

“No, no,” Zenyatta waves his hand. “The doors of my abode are always open to you, Genji. I see your katana has been triggered. Were you practising your kata?”

“Yes.”

“A constructive exercise,” Zenyatta praises. “That you understand your temperament and have learnt to discipline it is commendable.”

“Well,” Genji hedges, “Usually I resort to some form or the other of, ah, vigorous activity, to kerb my frustrations.”

“And commendable too that you can adapt when the situation demands,” Zenyatta replies, ensuring a raised eyebrow and _I’m not an idiot_ are implied as well. It grieves him that Genji so often associates his inorganic existence with an ignorance of such things as virility, as mortal passions and desires and an appreciation for beauty. He is fully aware of the nature of Genji’s past, and aware also of his wants and needs as a man (perhaps all too well, at times – the first time he had observed Genji flowing through the motions of his kata, his processor may or may not have overheated). It grieves him because it is a glimpse into how Genji must perceive himself, if he takes such assumptions about the omnic for granted.

Zenyatta raises a hand and places it lightly between Genji’s shoulderblades. “Night falls. Come inside; perhaps you can spend the night?”

“How scandalous.”

“I was imagining you would share what has been distressing you. Did you have something else in mind?”

He can hear the hesitation in the short burst of static before Genji responds with a one-armed shrug – _surely an omnic monk could not be propositioning him?_ “I did have a few things I thought we should talk about.”

“Very well then. I’ll brew us a pot of tea. Have you taken your supplements?”

“No.”

“That will not do. I should have most of your intakes stored away in the cabinet; help yourself to those. Come in, come in. I hear cold weather is bad for the joints.”

He leads the way inside without further ado. It is a few moments before Genji latches on, manages a weak (and delayed) laugh, and follows.

 

* * *

 

 

The interior of Zenyatta’s room is by and large identical to the rest of the monastery – dark wood and washed-out stone and orange pavings, tapestries and candlelight, clay vases holding fresh rhododendrons by the windowsills. The difference is in the absence of copper urns and brass figurines, and of course of any incense. Genji’s mentor prefers the muddy-wet smell of snow on rock to the musk of incense, and in the evenings when the windows are shut, he makes tea.

Even now, a fresh pot hangs over the fire, infusing tea leaves with mint and cardamom. This is tea for the conversation, tea for the room: neither of them have the systems to drink or stomach tea, but the monk delights in the sweet-scented steam the brew will release, and he’ll boil it until the water dries out.

They were _supposed_ to be having a conversation, but of course it must be prefaced with a round of meditation. Genji sits restlessly in the lotus position (Zenyatta has assured him seiza is perfectly acceptable, but that posture belongs far too much to the image of a man he wishes he could burn from memory) and attempts to hear what the monk is saying. Except that his thoughts are far, far away from this room and this moment; they roam around the sacred mountains of Hanamura, amidst cloud-draped clifftops and grottos tucked away into the shrine grounds, amidst cherry blossoms and lotus ponds with actual lotuses and koi fish, trailing the tap of his shoes over wooden bridges and the clang of metal as a gong is sounded, as an arrow deflects off his blade during a friendly match, as his blade crashes to the ground and scorching heat engulfs him–

“I sense your heart is not set on this evening’s meditation.”

He jerks violently as he returns to the room. Zenyatta’s hands are folded loosely in his lap and his head is slightly tilted to the side. He feels a twinge in his cheek, followed by the hot flush of embarrassment. “Sorry,” he says. “It isn’t.”

He expects a _Do not be discouraged_ , followed by a patient request to try again.

“Not to worry,” Zenyatta assures him instead. “Perhaps it is not what you need at this moment. Why don’t you tell me what troubles you?”

Genji shifts and settles his legs into a cross-legged position. “When you brought me here and gave me a home,” he begins carefully, “You said there was no condition for my stay except that I give myself a chance.”

“Yes.”

“I need to know what you meant by that. Because I think I have given myself a chance, and I think you have given me many chances, and maybe I am not worthy or maybe you are just too removed from the harsh reality of things, because I’ve failed every one of these chances.”

“You have not failed me.”

“No, look. This is part of the problem; this whole benevolent placatory no-confrontation happy-peaceful-fun-times thing you have going here. It’s great, it’s wonderful, but it’s too static, and that’s – not what I need right now. At all.”

Zenyatta does not reply, though his orbs begin an odd, swerving motion around him. Their orbit is elliptical now, and they oscillate up and down as they revolve, as though Zenyatta is channelling his agitation into them. Genji wonders if he’s gone too far this time, but the words felt good coming out of his vocaliser, and he’s happy to spew more should the need arise. He was handed an invitation to speak his mind – he’s damn well going to accept it.

“All right,” the monk replies at last.

“All right?”

“I am in agreement,” Zenyatta clarifies. The orbs are still dancing their odd dance, the carvings gradiating slowly from their usual turquoise to a deep blue, and back again. “I have felt your unrest for some time, and I have no desire to coerce you into a cage in the name of protection. I thank you for considering it worthwhile to consult with me, but I hold no authority over whether you stay or leave, Genji.”

“Ah. That is…good to hear.” Genji’s vents release a much-pressured cloud of steam. He relaxes his shoulders and unclenches hands he had not realised he had fisted. Abashedly, he admits, “If anything, _I_ should thank _you_ for what you have done for me.”

“No need. Will you be making your leave tomorrow?” Zenyatta asks. He sounds far-off and distracted, as though he is already drifting to some other plane of thought, or as though he is scheming something behind that smooth faceplate (either is equally likely).

“I, uhm,” Genji falters. “I don’t want a fanfare over it.”

“Of course,” Zenyatta nods. “You can leave when you feel it is most convenient. I will explain your circumstances to the others.”

“Thank you.”

The monk nods once more, then resumes his meditation. His orbs continue to transition between various shades of blue, but their uncoordinated swivelling has calmed, and now they simply whir in two concentric circles around Zenyatta’s head. He is in deep thought – contemplating the mysteries of the universe is probably not a part-time job. Behind him, the teapot is making small rasping noises.

“Your tea is finished,” Genji says. “Would you like a refill?”

“Oh, yes please,” Zenyatta requests. “Add a few more of the mint leaves, if you do not mind? They are in the jar next to the magnesium supplements in the cabinet.”

Genji rises to do his bidding. He’ll slip out tomorrow afternoon, when the monks are occupied with their craftwork. There’s a village about a half-day’s walk from the one by the temple; he can gather any necessary supplies there without arousing suspicion.

 

* * *

 

 

He opens his eyes to darkness. This is no surprise; he has already become accustomed to sightlessness. _Your pupils are permanently contracted_ , the good Doctor had said. _Filmy and motionless_ , she had jotted down in her datapad.

_My mother’s eyes_ , he remembers telling her in a half-drugged ramble. His father (always so stoic, so strong, soaring so high above the clouds) had not been able to speak to him for a week after his mother’s death. And his brother – he used to line his eyes with the same black ink he’d use on his own during the festivals. _I’m handsome enough without it_ , Genji would complain. _Yes, but your eyes are your_ most _handsome feature, and everyone should know it_ , his brother would reply. And then Genji would blink and smear the ink and Hanzo would hiss and wipe away the blots and draw it all over again, breath hot on Genji’s cheek and smelling of ginger tea. Sometimes if he felt particularly obnoxious he would add a smear of peacock-green shade off the corners of his eyes, too, and revel in Genji’s protestations.

His pulse is sound, if somewhat sluggish. He can’t hear the moan of the wind through the cave or the dull roar of the snowstorm outside, but he can hear a smooth, low drone and the whisper of metal through air. The mat below him feels far softer and cushier than he recalls, and – well, he’s certainly not in his little rock shelter anymore.

His visuals kick in on command – odd, he’s set them to activate automatically when he is out of sleep mode – and the rest of his systems boot up as his body wakes. He’s seeing in night-vision; he can make out walls and windows, moonlight streaming through the arched panes and gauze drapes. He’s still in the mountains, by the looks of it, but the snowstorm has come to a stop, or isn’t passing over this region.

He hears the whistle of steam and the smells the whiff of tea and notices the tall shelves stacked with books and pots and jars and medical implements, and he comes to the sinking realisation that he is in the monastery’s infirmary. The soft mat under him is in fact the cot reserved for the ill, and the whir of metal is coming from the arbitrary floating motions of a set of orbs about the room. Their owner is seated on a stool beside the cot, head bent to his chest, headlights blinking dimly.

Great.

He attempts to push his body into sitting, but his back has clearly transmuted to solid wood, because he cannot feel a muscle (organic or synthesised, any will do at this point) in there.

So. Here he is, brought back by fate’s sticky fingers to the place he’s spent an entire half-day hiking through _the fucking Himalayas_ to get away from, saved presumably from death by hypothermia by the very people he’d neglected to bid farewell to before deserting, and with no chance to slip away again and excuse them all from a very embarrassing confrontation. Being saved is the one thing he’s been doing consistently as of late, and apparently he can’t even get that right. He sighs and slumps back into the mattress, resigning himself to the inevitable reproach to come.

This deep into the night, the torches and candles are all snuffed, robbing the monastery of the usual crackle and smoke that keeps it alive. Instead, there is only the distant call of the wind as it snakes through the cliffs and the background hum of the omnic as they recharge. He watches the circuit of Zenyatta’s orbs as they trace figure-eights and eddies in the air. Here, one is flittering about like a Snitch. There, a trio orbit each other in mimicry of a star system. To his left, four orbs swing and collide in a Newton’s cradle formation. He wonders whether they have programming of their own, or whether they move in response to whatever subconscious processes Zenyatta must be running even in his sleep.

A singular orb spinning a lazy crown around Zenyatta’s head floats towards him and nudges his fingers, bringing their restless tapping to a halt. He upturns his palm and the orb deposits itself there, buzzing warmly. While the monk sleeps, the hand-carved inscriptions on his orbs glow a fluorescent white, winking occasionally as though to mirror the full moon. He rubs at the curlicues with his thumb and the orb twitches. “Mmmh,” it says.

Which is probably the closest Zenyatta will come to a yawn. Genji releases the orb and it bleeds back into its characteristic blue highlights. He waits while Zenyatta stretches his arms and eases the tension in the cords of his neck, waking leisurely.

“Ahh, that was a much-needed sleep cycle,” Zenyatta mumurs. “I see you are awake. How are you feeling?”

“Warmer,” Genji replies. There isn’t much else he can say around the shame paralysing his vocals. “Thank you.”

“No need for thanks,” Zenyatta says, and at this point Genji is mostly certain the answer has been preprogrammed into him. _Thank you for stopping me from starting a street fight._ No need for thanks. _Thank you for offering me a home._ No need for thanks. _Thank you for not holding this over my head._ No need for thanks. _Thank you for saving my life._ No need for thanks.

It’s as though the monk lives to serve. Genji has had servants who have quoted those exact words to him, and yet they have never been louder and clearer than when (un)spoken by Zenyatta.

He laughs at himself. He manages to fall back into someone’s arms no matter where he goes, like the slatternly nobleman he is. He turns his head to Zenyatta, who sits placidly in his stool, gaze fixed keenly on him.

“I’m guessing I owe the monastery an explanation after all this?” he asks. “And an apology for my behaviour yesterday. It would only be fair.” He’s such a fucking coward.

“Not at all,” Zenyatta declines. “I kept my word, Genji. They are already aware of your situation. You have not been brought back here for keeping. Your processor sent a distress signal a few hours earlier, and we sent a search party down the mountains. They happened upon you in a small cave, sleeping through a snowstorm.”

“Oh.” He didn’t even know he _had_ a distress signal.

“Nearly frozen solid,” Zenyatta adds, and this is where his voice takes on that deeper, sharper, no-nonsense tone. “Your antifreeze reserve was depleted when we managed to thaw you out. Did your diagnostics not advise you when to refill?”

“They did.”

“Your bag contained a canister of antifreeze.”

“Yes.”

“So you chose not to refill it, then, or to use the brushes in your maintenance kit to clear out the snow in your hinges.”

“No,” Genji sighs. “I was tired, and my power was running low, and it was cold and I think I went into hibernation before I could run maintenance.”

“You did not get an opportunity to recharge before you left, did you?”

“Not sufficiently, no.”

Zenyatta seems to mull over this, before inclining his head shortly. “Well, I will give you the benefit of doubt. I did notice you had not packed your supplements, though.”

“I ran out.”

Zenyatta makes an odd clicking sound – the first incoherent thing Genji had heard from him – and the lights embedded onto his forehead flash briefly. “I have told you that you are welcome to my own stores. And if you were running short, you needed only to let me know. I would have happily acquired more for you.”

“Look,” Genji says, doing his best to not snap. “I was focused on the actual leaving; I didn’t have the state of mind to ruminate on the finer detail _s_ of the journey.”

And he feels like an idiot the moment he hears the words out loud, and he’s sure if Zenyatta had eyebrows they’d arch as high as Everest at this point, what with the mock cough he lets out before saying, “I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

They’re silent after that for a while, and the wandering orbs gradually coast back to their place around Zenyatta’s neck, like stray thoughts being gathered to a fine point.

“I think I’ll leave before dawn,” Genji remarks, though what he really wants to ask is _Would it be all right if I left before dawn, without a word of thanks to the omnic who rescued me?_ “If my body is up to it. And I’d like to enlist your help in packing for the journey, since you clearly think I’m underqualified to manage that much.”

“I do not think, I _know_ ,” the monk retorts. “And I am happy to help, since I have some packing of my own to do, provided you acquiesce to my proposal.”

“Your – what?”

“My proposal. I have been thinking of leaving the monastery for some time now, and have in fact spoken to Mondatta about it. I would like to leave with you, if you will permit it.”

Genji tightens his grip on the mattress cover. “Is this a ruse to keep an eye on me?” he demands.

“Not at all. I have certain…ideological differences with my brothers, and I feel I would learn much were I to share a journey with you. You are under no compulsion, of course. If you would rather travel alone, I can manage on my own.”

“So you’ll just – follow me, wherever I go?”

“For as long as you allow it.”

He thinks over this. “All right,” he says slowly. “All right, I’m amenable to that, for now at least. It would be comforting to have someone stop me from accidentally dying, should the occasion arise, at any rate.” And the company would be advantageous, given how many connections the Shambali seem to have, and it would do the monk wonders to see the real world out there. He’s oddly (sadistically) excited about this. Fine words and meditation come _so very naturally_ to this omnic. What would happen if he were to see the dark underbelly of Hanamura, the blood-soaked battlefront of Seoul, the abject misery of India? Would he still laugh like tinkling bells in the face of genocide? Would he become as ascetic as the lifestyle he leads? Would he break, would he shatter, would he shut down? _What would he do?_

“Excellent!” Zenyatta claps, oblivious to the ugly thoughts racing through his mind. “Well, then. I shall prepare our supplies, and write a letter for my brothers. Rest well; dawn is not too far, and your back will still be aching when we set out.”

“Yes, _Master_ ,” Genji teases.

“Be careful, or I may insist on that title. I have been known to have a taste for flattery.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...so, how many random headcanons did you manage to pick up?  
>  If you feel like something is particularly off-canon or needs explaining, don't hesitate to let me know!
> 
> Translations, as usual (and of course, as usual also, many many thanks to midnightluck <3):
> 
> _kata_ : A system of training exercises. Particular martial arts, and particular styles thereof, tend to have unique systems of these.  
>  _momo_ : Tibetan/Nepalese steamed dumplings  
>  _chutni_ : A spicy condiment (though it can be sweet, too), made using fruits and/or vegetables, vinegar, sugar and spices. I like to think of it as a cross between jam and pickles (achar).  
>  _kasaya_ : Buddhist robes  
>  _uttarsanga_ : The upper robe in a set of kasaya 
> 
> If you think I have mistranslated something, beep away at me.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is...unbelievably late, not that I ever pretended at having a regular update schedule. I have no excuse, except for Pokemon Moon. Until January, when my colony of ralts, dittos and legendaries can migrate over to my new game, I will probably be a bit more regular, hopefully ;P

The storeroom has not been cleaned since the last raid; a thick layer of dust coats the array of chests and boxes at the back and the wood flooring has lost its shine. Hanzo pulls open one of the closets to find a practice bow and even there the equipment lacks arrangement. Bokken are propped together in a graceless clutter in the same shelf as unstrung yumi. Yugake and spare hakama sit in a rumpled heap in a storage tray. A disassembled suit of kendo armour is tucked away between the wooden shields.

There was once a time when the practice gear was organised with the same care and precision as their library, when the floors of the dojo complex were swept and washed daily by the servants in honour of their gifted young masters.

Hanzo reaches into the clutter of swords and bows to procure one similar in length to his own. He shuffles through the assortment without hurry, fingers brushing across wood and fibreglass, soaking in fragments of memory lost to grief and rage. As he parts a bundle away from the rest, one of the hankyu tumbles to his feet, and he is struck by its familiarity.

He picks the bow and turns it over, and as he suspected, etched into the inner flat of its shaft with all the finesse of a seven-year-old’s script are the kanji for Genji’s name. No doubt, then; it is that bow – the one that had bested him those many years ago, that his brother had taken unbridled delight in drawing.

Another shard slots into place within the jigsaw puzzle of his youth, slightly askew. (When an urn is broken, try as one might, they will never be able to piece it back together flawlessly. There will always be the crumble of shattered corners and the spatter of powdered clay that they will not account for, that they will not be  _ able _ to account for. Best to bury the evidence, or to not break it at all.)

He recalls their little competition with the soft-focused two-dimensionality of nostalgia – the whistle of Genji’s arrow as it struck bullseye, the clatter of his own bow as he thrust it to the ground in a fit of mortified anger, the bitter sting of defeat. For all his frivolity and rebellion, his younger brother had been unfairly talented in the martial arts, endowed with intelligence and beauty in equal measure, effortlessly drawing the attention and indulgence of all around him. In those days of ignorance, Hanzo had loved his brother for his brilliance and resented him for the envy it stirred in him, and had spent many an afternoon in their dojo punishing himself for his weakness, sweating out his frustration and licking self-inflicted wounds.

_ “Sha! All seven in the one go! Haha, I win!” _

_ “Not yet,” he’d ground out, clenching his fists. “A true assassin should master  _ all _ weapons. You’ll lose to me in a swordfight.” _

_ “Will not!” _

_ “Will too.” _

_ “Not!” _

_ “Too!” _

And they’d raced to the storeroom, much to their father’s chagrin, to retrieve their shinai. The match had been impromptu, fuelled by pride and pig-headedness, and Hanzo had forgotten for a moment that he was the elder and hit as hard and fast as his heated blood demanded, and he’d won and restored his supremacy as the firstborn (it had taken a good few lectures and his brother’s life to educate him as to the difference between  _ that _ and  _ honour _ ). They had both sworn that day, Genji through tears and a wobbly attempt at grace and Hanzo with the all the arrogance of a prepubescent boy, that they would best the other in their weapon of choice.

Hanzo hasn’t touched a longsword ever since, and he has an inkling Genji hasn’t touched a longbow. More the better: Hanzo has felled and fallen to many an opponent to have acquired the proficiency he boasts today, and he can say with absolute certainty that there is no better swordsman (no better  _ ninja _ ) than his brother.

He allows himself a private smile and draws out one of the shinai.  _ Not yet, at least _ .

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't think it was absolutely necessary to include a list of translations on this chapter, but do ask if you need to know, or think something's out of place!


	6. Chapter 6

His ane-san used to tell him that time dulls all wounds, but she must have been misinformed, because all his wounds have done with time is marinate. There have been nights when he has woken unsure whether he hacked his brother’s limbs off with an axe or crushed the bone with a mallet. Were the scars on his face knife incisions or burns? Genji has never let him look long enough to be able to tell the difference.

Memories wander and fade and sputter, mating with the horrors of his imagination. The Tanabata night he had lit firecrackers together with Genji explodes into a roaring sea of flames as Genji’s marrow sizzles and his skin chars. The gentle crash of waves on that afternoon he’d spent teaching Genji to swim bleeds into the thunder of his heartbeat as he holds Genji’s body underwater and waits for the bubbles to disappear.

And through it all there is a searing pain at his knees and a hollowness in his forelegs. When he looks down, there is empty space where his calves once were. But the noose tugs at his throat and he must continue walking on stumps.

 

* * *

  
Hanzo manages to force himself awake just before the crack of dawn. He sits up and reaches behind his head to prop up a pillow. It is soaked with sweat, and so are the sheets twisted around his thighs. Sweat drips from the tangle of his hair, down his nose and nape, even though the thermostat is on. His body overheats every time he has one (or two or three) of these accursed dreams, as though he was the one who had been incinerated a decade ago.

(And if only a reversal of events were so simple as a nightmare. Never should the younger brother have to die before the older, and never at the hands of one who is bound by blood to be his guardian and guide.)

(Perhaps he _has_ been cursed. Perhaps this is the dragons’ punishment. Their rage is fathomless, their grief devastating. _You killed our brother_ , they say. _We gave you our lives and you ravaged our brother’s._

_But it was my duty_ , he says. Words fed to him with the golden spoon they put in his mouth when he was born; words spoken from his lips but said by crones whose faces and fingers have become gnarled with greed and bloodlust.

_And now you must bear its burden_ , say the dragons.)

It is a few disorientated seconds later that he realises his heart rate has yet to drop. He steadies his breathing and tenses, then relaxes his muscles. He peels the covers off his legs and leans to the side to retrieve a towel from the bedside table, using it to pat at his neck and face before the sweat can congeal. The towel should be cool and smell of sandalwood, its fibres should be soft and gentle on his skin. He smells the toxin of mothballs and his skin is too numb to appreciate any relief.

His prosthetics sit on the floor beside the bed. He shifts on his thighs to the edge of the mattress and clamps them on by muscle memory. There is a small buzz as they glow to life. Their light illuminates the hairtie that fell out in his sleep and he gathers his hair into a haphazard bun.

He needs water.

 

* * *

 

The problem with choosing to cohabit in the guest wing with the others is that it is an uphill battle every time he steps into the kitchens. He has enough sense not to keep any of his preferred sake in the refrigerator, especially after the last spat he managed to incite with Genji while drunk. But Oxton keeps her rum in there and Wilhelm his beer. Jesse keeps his whiskeys in the cupboard opposite, next to Morrison’s small store of absinthe (it does not do much for him in the way of inebriation, but apparently he likes the taste). On nights (or days) like this, the thirst is too compelling to deny. He stares into the grit stuck between the floor tiling as he gropes about for a water bottle, reigning in the temptation.

His bedroom is too hot and airless to return to. Hanzo carries the bottle with him to the nearest drawing room instead, where he is likely to find an hour or two of solitude before the morning hours. When he arrives, though, the very essence of refinement with his uncombed hair and clumsily fastened yukata, the room is already occupied by the omnic monk. He has taken the liberty of pulling aside the fusuma to allow the beginnings of daylight into the room, and sits reading on a cushion.

He looks up when Hanzo pauses at the doorway. “Good morning,” he says, cheerful as you please.

Hanzo clears the rasp out of his throat and replies in kind. He enters the room – his weariness takes precedence over his pride on such mornings – and seats himself on the cushion opposite Zenyatta’s. He takes a swig from the bottle, and once again. The water is a relief down the parched crackling heat of his airway, and as he caps the near-finished bottle, he notices from the splinter of its spine that Zenyatta’s book has been taken from the shelves behind him. There is no title on the velveteen cover, but he can see the finger-softened, dog-eared yellow of its pages from where he is sitting, and he recognises the book instantly. Suspicious that the monk should happen to pick up _Genji Monogatari_ as his first choice for leisure reading. (Or far from suspicious, rather. Hanzo can only claim to best know the Genji of his memories, but it is this being who boasts intimate knowledge of Genji the man.)

“Is everything all right?” Zenyatta’s voice snaps Hanzo out of his daze, and he realises the omnic has been observing him ever since he entered the room. He has one of his fingers wedged between the pages he was reading, but the book is shut. Hanzo sets the bottle down on the low table between them and attempts to dispel the grog from his mind.

“No,” he says.

“Sleep eludes you?”

“No. I am due to wake in an hour or so in any case. What of you? Do you not enter into,” he waves his hand vaguely, “sleep mode, or shut down, during the night?”

Zenyatta chuckles. “Something like that, but I am usually awake during these hours. Well, if you are sure nothing is wrong,” he says genially, and resumes his reading. Hanzo is aware, with no little irritation, that the omnic will keep an eye on him and pounce when he feels Hanzo is ready to confess.

He is no snivelling coward in need of the pretty consolations of a tin robot. He takes to grounding himself through the physicals of his surroundings – the weave of the tatami under his toes, the smell of leather and silk on the furniture both Zenyatta and he have chosen to forgo, the deep green and many shades of pink from the azalea bushes lining the walkway outside. But as the minutes pass, he finds himself drawn back to the whisper of paper as the pages of the novel are flipped, the curious twirls and blinks and swivels of the monk’s orbs as he reads.

He remembers another dawn, spent with another man (only a boy, then), and the same book. Genji sneaking into his room past their caretaker’s watch, mumbling something about _the bed is too big_ and diving under the covers with him, twenty-three elbows and seventeen knees and the sharp jab of the hardcover book. His duvets had been made short work of; soon they were huddled together beneath a blanket fort and giggling at the odd shadows cast by the woodwork of his lamp on its walls. Tangled legs and hands held together, sticky-sweet because Genji had (of course) managed to stuff his hand into the candy jar on his way to Hanzo’s room. Shared breath and whispered secrets and promises, shrill hushes as the floor creaked or steps echoed in the distance. Hanzo reading page after page of the tale of the Shining Prince to his brother, Genji scowling at some of the prince’s pursuits and snorting at others and smirking at others still. Genji imagining he would grow to be as handsome as his namesake, with as many conquests to his name. And himself, teasing and smiling and certain that such would be the future, as kaleidoscopic as afternoons spent on a pleasure boat, falling asleep to the moist puffs of Genji’s breath on his neck, the warm weight of his head on his chest.

He remembers, a few years later, when what they had shared was quivering under the weight of their destinies, shouting at him, “You squander your time and smear your title as though you are some common whore!”

“Oh?” Genji had snarled, face twisted into a vicious grin, twisted like everything beautiful had inevitably become, twisted like the mangled heap of bones he’d been when he died. “I see nothing wrong with that, seeing as I was _named_ after a celebrated manwhore. Get the fuck out of my room, _brother_.”

He sucks in a breath and clenches his fists underneath the table. His hands are shaking, his hands need something to occupy them. There is some water left in the bottle. He drinks it. The label on the bottle is suddenly very fascinating; he peels it off and digs folds into it with his nails, rote-learnt and methodical. Start with the preliminary base, follow that with petal folds on either side. Reverse fold the points, tweak down the head and pull the wings to shape the body. The paper crane sits lopsidedly between his sweaty palms. One of its wings is shorter than the other.

“Ah, a paper crane!” Zenyatta exclaims. Hanzo looks up sharply. “Do you like folding paper, Hanzo?” the monk asks.

“Not quite,” he admits, placing the crane between the two of them. “I was taught how to fold cranes by my brother.” It is a nervous habit of his, absentmindedly folding orizuru whenever he finds himself in need of distraction. On one of his birthdays, Genji had thrust a 1000 sheet pack of chiyogami at his chest and insisted that he learn the ancient craft of origami. It had been one of his many phases and of course he was determined to drag Hanzo into it as well, as always insensitive to the thicker chains of Hanzo’s attachments.

(Hanzo had folded his second-last sheet last year, two weeks before he had reunited with his brother. He had mocked himself by wishing upon it for the things he had no right to wish for, like redemption, like his brother’s life.)

Zenyatta seems to consider this. “He taught me, too,” he offers, picking up the paper crane. He turns it over this way and that, then deftly undoes some of the folds. “Though not intentionally. He would write letters to some unnamed recipient and then refuse to send them, during his time with me. He used the scrapped sheets to fold cranes, and I learn by watching him.” There is something all-too-knowing and simultaneously woeful in his tone, in the gleam of his headlights. He folds new creases into the label and nods, apparently satisfied with his work. “Here,” he says, offering the bird on his palm to Hanzo.

Hanzo frowns. “What did you do to its wings?”

Zenyatta’s lights seem to twinkle, and he tugs at the tail with the fingers of his other hand. The wings flap up and down.

“A bit of magic. Take it. It is yours.”

Like a blessing being granted, like a _wish_ being granted. Hanzo declines on instinct.

“It is yours whether you want it or not,” Zenyatta says. His voice is gentle but firm. He rises and drops the flying crane onto Hanzo’s lap, retrieves the empty water bottle and slips the book back into its place between the shelves, then hovers away outside, humming a merry tune.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note: I'm sorry, I just couldn't resist the temptation! The context of Genji as a hedonistic prince who at some point falls from grace reminds me all too much of _The Tale of Genji_ , so I had to draw the comparison. Not to mention, both Hanzo and Genji are clearly highly literate and seem to have a tendency for poetic speech, so I thought it would be a nice idea to make a younger Genji fond of the old classic, and somewhat influenced by it.
> 
> Translations: 
> 
> _ane-san_ : Literally translates to 'older sister', but I'm using it here to refer to the brothers' caretaker.  
>  _fusuma_ : Solid sliding panels that act as dividers between rooms, or doors. They can be painted with elaborate artistic patterns and designs, or simpler ones that depict natural scenery.


	7. Chapter 7

The printed chiffon would suit the embroidery on his kimono well, Hanzo supposes, but it is too conspicuous. The painted silk – too decorative. He settles on a satiny green scarf instead, one with a subtle pattern embossed into its weave, and ties it securely over his hairband. It will complement the dark hue of the kimono while allowing for discretion. He picks out the pouches he had packed the night before and clips them to their places on his belt, slings his quiver over his shoulder, retrieves his bow from the closet and leaves the room.

Genji’s room is to the lower-left end of the wing, as far from his own as possible (a calculated precaution on his part; more for Genji’s sake than his own) and looking out to a garden, whereas his own sits atop the steep rock foundations of the Castle, guarded by its towering walls. Hanzo walks silently through the corridors and foyers to it, mindful of their guests, melding into the early morning shadows.

Genji’s silhouette is visible through the shoji screen partitioning his room, sitting in what Hanzo assumes is meditation. He knocks twice on the wooden frame and waits as Genji rises and slides the door open. In stark contrast to Hanzo’s own quarters, Genji has drawn open all of the curtains to allow in the meagre daylight. He has also evidently made an effort to pick the most undecorated room available, so Spartan are the furnishings. Which is probably why the sight of the omnic monk lying in a graceful sprawl (or, as graceful as a sprawl of metal and ball bearings can be) over Genji’s futon is the first thing to catch Hanzo’s eye.

“Hello, brother,” Genji says, and that is definitely amusement in his voice.

Hanzo suppresses a jerk and nods a greeting. “Was his own room not to his liking?” he hears slip out of his mouth, and then bites his tongue.

Genji leans one shoulder lightly against the doorframe and crosses his arms. “His room was fine. We shared mine last night,” he says, and there’s a grin laced into that sentence, the old one that says _Wanna hear the details?_ and wallows in Hanzo’s discomfort. Hanzo is not familiar with the particular idiosyncrasies of Genji’s new…body, but he is certain the telltale winking of his biolights is not a malfunction.

He nods tersely and searches for the words he had rehearsed before coming to stand here. Something about Kyoto and an offer to travel together. “Were you meditating?” he asks stupidly when the silence stretches.

“No,” Genji replies. He rolls his neck. “I was streaming music.”

He snorts. “Sitting in the lotus and streaming music?”

“Yes.”

“You were never one to do a thing by halves.”

Genji laughs. “I do normally meditate at this time, but there’s a playlist I wanted to organise for the train ride today.”

“Train ride?”

Genji cocks his head. “That is why you are here, are you not? We are leaving for Kyoto to see Bastion today? I noticed you were packing yesterday, so I assumed–”

Hanzo clicks his tongue in annoyance. (Was there anything those eyes ever missed?) “You assumed correctly. You must be ready, then? Come, I want to be there before midday.” He turns to leave, his knuckles white around his bow.

“Ah, wait!” Genji interjects. “I haven’t packed just yet. I was busy last night—” and when Hanzo makes an expression of disgust he adds, quickly, laughingly (smugly), “—with Lena and Hana, playing Tower Fall, so give me five minutes and I’ll be with you.” He makes no effort to lower the usual volume of his voice out of consideration for Zenyatta, and Hanzo is about to remark on it before he realises that omnickind are probably not as prone to disruption during their sleep, or what substitutes for that, as humans are.

He watches quietly as Genji retrieves things from the closet – an unadorned sack, a box containing what Hanzo presumes are his maintenance tools, two canisters and charge packs. As he places them on the matting, one of the monk’s orbs drifts out of its lazy orbit around his head and swirls in an intimate path about Genji’s neck. Genji lifts his hand and fiddles with the orb almost absentmindedly, brushing its curve with the backs of his fingers as he considers his possessions. He carefully selects a set of shuriken – thicker and heavier than the ones he typically favours, Hanzo notes, suited more to penetrating metal than slicing through flesh – and stows them into the compartment on his arm. The orb flitters around him as he then sets about packing, or more accurately, shoving things into the sack with no thought for space whatsoever. (Whatever else may have been altered during his surgery, Genji’s fastidiousness clearly suffered no compromise.)

A stray sunbeam bounces off the morning-fogged plating on his shoulder and Hanzo notices a pink squiggle among the nicks and dents scattered over the metal. “What is that?” he asks, jerking his chin at the drawing.

Genji looks down to where he gestured and sniggers. “Hana must have doodled it on when I was off-guard. It’s a rabbit,” he explains, tightening the drawstring of the bag. “She thinks my antennae look like rabbit ears so she insisted I should get a personalised mascot.”

It looks nothing like a rabbit, and neither do Genji’s antennae, so Hanzo is inclined to think Genji was merely humouring the girl. Except that he seems to have no intention of rinsing it off, and he is a thirty-five-year-old man (impossible to think it, when Genji has always been a laughing-shining-mud-streaked boy to his eyes) who takes playing antiquated video games with two children as his God-given duty, so there is every possibility that he genuinely likes the look of it.

“Well,” Genji announces, standing. He slides the closet shut and pokes at the vagrant orb until it drifts back into its sleepy orbit. “I am ready.”

When they leave the room, the sun shines a tad brighter and the air is a few degrees warmer.

 

* * *

 

The castle yards are vast and sprawling, smelling richly of cypress and sweet grass and sweeter flowers, of sun on stone and water on soil. In the early morning hour, fog weaves its way through the gardens and grazes over his synthetic flesh, carrying on it the ever-so-familiar dampness of early spring.

Genji observes the ramrod straightness of Hanzo’s back as he walks through the corridors, recognises the stiffness as borne of an inherent sensitivity to cold rather than discomfort at his company (or at least, not of that discomfort alone). He has forgone the usual attire for something more subdued; his hair is tied loosely at the nape with a modest scarf. Genji himself has little need for such subtlety – his years with the Shambali have effectively erased him from the monitors, and most in Hanamura turn a resolutely blind eye to omnic and their kind. But Hanzo covers his dragons and dons civvies and hides behind his bangs, wearing the disguise like armour.

(And Genji thinks perhaps the leader-gone-rogue of the Shimada may have need for such armour when there is no place for him among the villains or the heroes of their world. Or maybe the armour is against the morning chill and Hanzo is as much of a snotty-faced, red-nosed, blanket-hogging cold-goblin as he was when he was eight; it’s hard to tell.)

He looks younger like this, though not even the softened edge of his cheekbones or the sadder tilt of his mouth can erase the marks scored by their past: the wrinkle of his forehead, the deeper grooves at the corners of his eyes, the silver speckles in his hair. Still, Hanzo wears his wounds well, as he has always worn everything. His kimono of choice sits primly over his shoulders, concealing their breadth but sharpening their angles. In meticulous coordination with the dye of the cloth, the LEDs installed into his prosthetics glow a bluish-green.

(Genji often wonders how Hanzo has come to terms with his augmented legs, having been raised with such men only as underlings and the omnic only as servants. He had reacted so violently to Genji’s cybernetic body that Genji could not help but take a retrospective satisfaction in the final injury he had dealt him – not in the flesh wound itself, but in the blow to Hanzo’s pride. Of course, that had been followed by an intense urge to throw up the contents of a stomach that no longer functioned, but the fact remains that he’d taken vicious pleasure in it first.

Perhaps this is how Hanzo copes, then: he hones his legs to perfection as much as he does the rest of his being. Thus they become another of the tools of his trade, so that he may climb to redemption as a warrior, if never as a man.)

They pass by the room Genji had spent the evening with Lena and Hana in. The holoscreen is still flickering with the garish colours of some new anime and the girls have evidently felt no need to retire to their rooms. Lena is sprawled out over the couch and Hana against it, her head resting on Lena’s thigh, and they’ve fallen asleep like that. Lena’s mouth is open and drooling, and her fingers are tangled in Hana’s hair. Hana herself is cushioned by an amassment of chips packets, her eyes ringed in black and lips moustached in bright orange cheese powder.

Genji feels warmed by the sight, and even warmer when Hanzo silently switches the holoscreen off and drapes a blanket over the two of them. There will probably be a good talking-down-to about littering and taking the housekeepers for granted later, and no one but Genji will have been witness to Hanzo gently straightening the angle of Hana’s neck so as to prevent a crick in it when she wakes.

On the way to the reception hall they are seen by Jesse, who is droopy-eyed and loose-limbed from sleep. He smiles lazily at them as he scratches at his chest, yukata half slipping off his shoulder, hair a veritable rat’s nest, and waves.

“You guys headed out as well?”

The question is probably directed at Hanzo, going by Jesse’s concerned glance at his brother. For his part, Hanzo is frozen, with his mouth slightly open. His eyes are fixed on the exposed muscle of Jesse’s chest and the long, thick cord of his neck. It’s a good second or two before he clears his throat. “Why, did someone else also leave?” he asks coolly.

Genji swallows a laugh and watches with amusement as Hanzo’s cheeks colour slightly, lips pinching at the small noise.

“Yeah, Jack went out an hour ago,” Jesse answers, gesturing half-heartedly at the doorway.

Jack? The man has no current connections in Hanamura that Genji can think of. He rifles busily through the possible reasons Jack would be heading off on his own, without a word. Despite his seniority, the general consensus is that Jack needs the most watching out of their motley crew. Something’s changed in him, and though in some ways he has become wiser, in others he has become crueller. And there is a fine line between wisdom and madness, anyway.

“What for?” Hanzo asks.

“I don't know,” Jesse says, with a carefully disinterested shrug. His eyes flick briefly to Genji, a familiar anger and resignation deep-set in them.

Genji nods imperceptibly and pats Hanzo’s shoulder. “He is probably investigating something; he has never been the patient sort. We should make haste, as well.”

Hanzo glances between the two of them impassively. “We should,” he says, gaze intent on Genji. He nods a farewell at Jesse and leaves the room. Genji follows, catching the murmured _Good luck_ meant for his ears, though whether Jesse is being sardonic or earnest is up for debate.

 

* * *

 

Hanzo’s stomach chooses the moment the convenience store by the bus stop is in sight to let out a hideous rumble. He walks forward purposefully, determined to ignore the lapse in composure, but a hand on his shoulder stops him.

Genji’s expression is as unreadable as ever behind the silver faceplate and glowing visor, and it’s like swallowing needles, coming to terms with the fact that he knows so little of his brother that he is alienated from him without knowing his face. Hanzo had thought he knew his expressions like the back of his hand, could draw the lines of his palm with closed eyes and parry the blows of his sword with two left feet. But now that face is (literally) closed to him, that hand eerily unlined and Ryuu Ichimonji a stranger, and he must strain his ears to hear the voice of his younger brother in the modulated words that come out of Genji’s voicebox. The words that are now scolding him for not having had breakfast before he left.

“Why didn’t you eat something on the way here, at least?” Genji is saying. “You could have brought something with you, if you wanted.”

And eat in front of him? Taunt him with the delicacies he could never eat again, that Hanzo had _made_ it so he could never eat again? Hanzo could not even manage to sit opposite Genji at the breakfast table in the mornings; how could he ask such an imbecilic question?

Hanzo opens his mouth to retort, but Genji holds up a hand. “Wait here while I get something from the combini,” he snaps, evidently clued in by Hanzo’s avoidant gaze, and he is gone before Hanzo can protest. Hanzo glances up accusingly at the sky before taking a seat at the bus shelter.

Genji comes back armed with a plastic box of onigiri, some brightly coloured sugar-infested fruit drink and a bag of sour gummy worms (ever the resident nutritionist). He thrusts the onigiri at Hanzo’s chest. “Eat,” he orders. “There is time before the bus comes.”

Hanzo exhales noisily. He does not bother with an _I’m not hungry_ , because once Genji has latched onto something, he will not let go. “I cannot eat this,” he says instead, shaking his head at the store logo. “It is bad for the palate.”

Genji snorts. “I see your eyes straying towards the gummy worms, Hanzo, and you are not getting any until you polish this box clean.” He drops the onigiri onto Hanzo’s lap and sits next to him, stuffing the juice bottle and candy away in his sack. Hanzo winces at the thought of the worms being squeezed and melted amidst the heat and disarray of its contents.

His stomach twinges again. He opens the box and unwraps a riceball. Chicken curry filling – it’ll do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...And we're done! For now, at least; when inspiration strikes me I'd very much like to continue writing for this series. 
> 
> Thank you very much to my discord group for all the inspiration, to my beta reader midnightluck for her tireless work correcting my silly under-educated misconceptions and bad research and badder grammar (aha, you see what I did there?), to my alpha reader/sister for reassuring me through my rough exam period and re-reading chapters and providing me with much needed subjective feedback and advice, and, of course, to the kind comments and kudos of the select readers who stumbled upon this fic. 
> 
> <3


End file.
